


Fall

by LonelyAche



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Dreams, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, M/M, canon compliant except when it comes to Gerard, post MAG 120 shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyAche/pseuds/LonelyAche
Summary: Jon has some bad dreams and Gerry is there for him.





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Salamander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/gifts).



Jon dreams of fire. 

Labyrinthine corridors stretch in every direction, thick with black smoke that reeks of charred plastic and skin and bone. Under his feet, the floor crumbles, slowly at first - a shiver crawls up Jon's spine at the rumbling from below - then quicker, until the wood and tile of the theatre's stage splinters open to reveal an endless, gaping maw. 

The first time it happens, Jon tries to run. The nauseating darkness closes in around him then tightens, squeezing the air from his lungs. Tears sear lines down his face and Jon struggles to ignore the too-familiar voices that call for him in the distance. 

Tim wouldn't really plead for him to jump, right? It's hard to remember, now. All he has are memories and dreams. And memories of dreams. 

Right?

The second time it happens, Jon runs again. It would be the last time. 

He falls and the fire trails into the abyss around him. Flames skirt along the edges of his vision, twinkling like stars in the gloom. They are followed by an echo of the Stranger’s dying screams, over the whirring of clockwork machinery and far-off explosions. 

Jon wakes between heartbeats, still falling. One moment he’s gripped by terror, the next the weight of an arm settles over his shoulders. A warm breath washes over his jaw, hair tickles his face and Jon reaches to smooth it away. 

“Hmm?” Gerry moans softly. His voice is still thick with sleep and Jon thinks - unfairly perhaps - regret. “Another one?” 

He’s half up and pushes at the sheets, drawing his knees to his chest with a sigh. It’s not the first and it won’t be the last nightmare to touch him, he knows. “Go back to sleep,” Jon says as he combs his fingers across Gerry’s scalp. “It’s-” Beyond the single window in their bedroom, the world is dark and silent, and London's skyline rises blurred by the rain. “Too early to be awake.”

“Nah. It's nearly time to get up. Plus it means I can spend a little longer cuddling you before that place takes you away.”

_ I’m not going anywhere. The Institute is not my prison _ , Jon wants to say,but he suspects Gerry knows the lie already. “There's work to be done,” he says instead. His job,  _ his _ statements. 

Gerry doesn't answer. He nods and stretches slowly, yawning, until his feet poke out of the quilt. Then he turns, arching to reveal a dotted line of tattoos along the pale skin on his spine. 

Before he can stop himself, Jon reaches to trace them and Gerry makes a throaty noise of pleasure. Jon palms the length of Gerry’s back, smoothing his hands over the eyes that stare back at him, inky pupils wide and unblinking, swathed in shadows. 

It's nice. It's better than reliving the nightmarish images still fresh in his mind and Jon allows himself to linger. A minute more spent in bed won't matter in the grand scheme of things -nor an hour, or a day, or even months spent wasting away in a hospital bed. None of it had mattered. 

“Jon,” Gerry says, suddenly clipped and Jon notices he has dug his nails into one of the eye tattoos.

He pulls back immediately. “It's the same as before. The nightmare,” he explains. Gerry has dealt with the Desolation before; Jon feels the scars under his fingertips every time they touch. “I heard them again. Tim… the others too.” There’s no need to elaborate, but Jon does so anyway.  “Gertrude, Leitner, they-”

Gerry interrupts him. He sits against the headboard and his arms curl over Jon's chest, tugging until Jon’s practically draped on his lap. “It doesn't have to mean anything. Your fear is all they give a shit about. Why else use a dead Archivist? The Dancer didn’t need to be that special, all it needed was time to do its creepy ritual.”

_ But Gertrude has been dead for years; Tim, on the other hand… _

“You really should stay home today, you know? You could always get the statements sent here,” Gerry continues. He ghosts a kiss over Jon’s cheek. He's close enough to whisper, close enough to watch the corners of Jon’s mouth turn with a frown.

“I didn’t think you appreciated me using the tape recorder here.”

But Gerry shrugs and it makes Jon hesitate. His heart hammers a steady rhythm in his ears. “I suppose I could do with taking a day off.” It’s the truth, though the words taste strange, too heavy on his tongue. “Martin and Basira should be able to handle it without me.” They had before.

“They will. Besides, I could do with some time off myself.” Gerry smiles and the sight of it catches Jon unprepared. “Not that, you know, it means much when I'm just freelancing but I guess it means I can splurge and cook a fancy breakfast for us.”

“Gerry,” Jon warns. The last time he’d tried to cook, it had ended with expensive takeaway and a ruined pan. 

“How does watery granola sound?”

Gerry is trying to distract him, they both know it--and it works. Jon laughs and allows Gerry to drag him back down on the bed. The mattress creaks and before long, the sheets have tangled around their bodies. It  _ is _ nice, Jon concedes in his head. 

Better than he could've hoped for.  
  


*****  
  


“I want to try it,” Jon says, squeezing his hands around Gerry’s hips and drawing a soft groan in the process. “I know, I know, neither of us has done this but… I-” There's no need to but he still hesitates.  “I want you to touch me, Gerry.”

Gerry shudders against him, muscles clenching hard for a second. “Christ, Jon. You just have to say it like that, don’t you?”

“Like what?”

“Like… that, fuck,” Gerry whistles sharply. He twists his ankle around Jon’s legs, digging his heel into skin. There’s a strange, not unpleasant pressure on the base of his spine. “It’s like you’re trying to tease me on purpose--and yeah, I know. I know. We're like fumbling teenagers and all that.“

“Teasing? I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. You’re sensitive, that's all,” Jon says.

Gerry opens his mouth and instead of words, a breathy moan echoes around him. It lasts only for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s been a while since I even had time to huh, take care of myself, so yeah. Sensitive. That’s a word for it.”

“I could find other words if you'd rather,” Jon says, amusement ringing in his tone. 

Although he isn't sure if he understood the implications of Gerry’s comment, Jon doesn't press the matter. 

Masturbating was fun enough but he'd never really sought it out either; he'd never needed  _ more _ , not before Gerry, anyway. Sometimes, when sleep refused to grace his night, he'd try it; he'd stroke himself to climax and appreciate the way his every muscle would relax and his stomach would throb hot and wonderful. 

Those were the nights he'd spent in the shower, washing and touching and drawing out a wonderful pleasure from his cock with the warm water washing all over him and the steam rolling lazily on his skin. It was, maybe not wonderful, but definitely relaxing. Jon had needed it.

Like he needs Gerry’s touch, now. Like the sensation he craves. 

“You know what I meant,” Gerry mock whines. He has a hand flat on the curve of his arse, propping him up slightly on the bed. It’s that warm and solid presence that keeps Jon grounded - it always had done so, even as they try new things.

“I know what you meant,” Jon repeats as he finds himself being gently positioned back on the mattress, legs splayed open. “Is this okay? Easy enough for you to reach?”

“Yup, you're perfect,” Gerry says, sliding the tips of his fingers around the inside of Jon's thighs,  stopping just short of making him squirm. “So fucking hot, Jon. I wish you could see yourself like this.”

“I'm not blind, you know. I see you enough to know what you mean, I think.” Jon bites back the urge to moan. He lets his head fall back on the pillow, exhaling as he imagines what Gerry is about to do with - to him. 

Before the Institute, before the Beholding, being used hadn't seemed even remotely satisfying. Now Jon teeters between real sensation and the knowing of its existence. It had nearly driven him insane, before Gerry had dragged it out of him: that yes, he enjoys being touched and yes, he enjoys the idea of taking it even further, even if he never quite considered the possibility... before.

“Right.”

Gerry doesn't stop and that’s something Jon is glad for. He traces the curve of Jon's inner thigh and teases the head of Jon’s cock with the flat of his palm, gently rubbing back and forth. It isn't - it doesn’t feel like  _ enough _ . His hips stutter and he reaches over Gerry’s shoulder as he clings to him. 

“Squirmy, are you?” Gerry laughs and his voice is rough, thick with arousal. There’s a squeak and a bottle rolls across the sheets.

Jon doesn’t trust himself to reply. In fact, he doesn't trust himself to do more than nod dumbly and bite back on the moans in the tip of his tongue, the ones that threaten to spill when Gerry’s fingers slide even lower and slowly press inside of him.

There’s a moment of pain - not sharp, not even  _ unwanted,  _ Jon realises - and then it’s gone, replaced by a dull throb and a fire that burns from the inside out. He relaxes what feels like a muscle at a time, reaching between his legs to stroke his own cock.

“Yeah,” Gerry encourages breathlessly, reaching one hand around Jon’s as he fucks him with his fingers. “Just like that. You look amazing.”

_ Maybe. Maybe not.  _ Jon isn’t sure he believes Gerry entirely. He’s not even sure it matters. Gerry wants him and Jon wants- needs him to want him. He needs to forget: the world, the monsters… his own fear.

Gerry gives him that. And more.

Jon’s heartbeat thrums in his veins when they rock together, working up a steady rhythm of pleasure and heat that threatens to overtake his every thought. Gerry leans to kiss him just as he enters him and for a second, Jon’s mind is utterly blank.   


It really doesn’t take very long for Jon to come after that. If he were any more self conscious, he would’ve felt bad for how  _ quickly _ he reaches the crest of his orgasm. But then, Gerry doesn’t seem to mind and after a little while they both fall on the bed and Jon shivers as Gerry peppers his chest with kisses. 

When Jon looks up, Gerry meets his gaze with a puzzling lopsided grin. Jon nearly asks, then stops himself as he notices the glint in Gerry’s eyes.  _ Drunk,  _ Jon thinks.  _ Happy. _

“What? Don’t tell me you can’t go again,” Gerry groans and reaches up to wipe stray hair off his forehead.

“Well,” Jon starts, licking the corner of his mouth. “I suppose we could always try.”  
  



End file.
